


quantus tremor est futurus

by jeweltone



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Azriel is that kid in the back of the classroom whispering under his breath, Bullying, Cassian is a jock, Child Abuse, Families of Choice, Gen, Gore, Pre-Canon, Rhysand is a poncy jackass, Torture, author takes liberties with canon because author doesn't give a heck, but he's also kind of an eldritch lovecraftian horror, toxic masculinity is a hell of a drug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 08:05:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeweltone/pseuds/jeweltone
Summary: The legend of the shadowsinger - one who can subjugate darkness, speak with it, bend it to his will, even become it - it says in ancient days they were venerated as devils. As demons. As dark gods of the limitless void.But that is merely a legend; nothing more than the stuff of midnight campfire stories and children's tales. Shadowsingers don't exist anymore.Right?(Scenes from Azriel's past, pre-canon.)





	quantus tremor est futurus

**Author's Note:**

> Quantus tremor est futurus,  
> Quando Judex est venturus,  
> Cuncta stricte discussurus!
> 
> -Dies irae, stanza 2

“Who is _that_?”

“Where did he come from?”

“Why’s he look so weird?”

“Rhysand!” Jocasta snaps, glaring at her son. “Uncalled for. You too, Cassian. Aren’t you two supposed to be sleeping?”

“Well, yes, but we heard-”

“No ‘buts.’ Bed. You have training in the morning, you want the other boys to beat you bloody because you are too tired? No? Then off with you.”

“We haven’t even met this kid yet.”

“Cassian, you insolent bat, he is your age.”

“Fuck, really? He doesn’t look-”

“ _L_ _anguage!_ ” She closes her eyes and exhales slowly. “Go upstairs and drag your brother with you. Don’t let me catch you downstairs again tonight. I will introduce you to this one when it is time.”

Rhys opens his mouth to protest this order, but his mother’s look has him and Cass both tripping over each other to get upstairs. Jocasta waits until the sound of footsteps quiets before yelling, “No eavesdropping, either.” Loud grumbling precedes the slamming of two bedroom doors.

Finally she is able to turn her attention to the boy across the table. “I apologize for them. I would say they’re normally more polite, but that would be lying. Are you thirsty?”

She’s certainly not daemati, but his thoughts are written plainly in his feral eyes - _it’s a trap don’t say yes but she’s nice you don’t know that you need water what if it’s drugged what if it’s not it’s a trap it’s a trap it’s a -_ he nods once.

“I thought so.” She walks the long way through the kitchen to the icebox so that she wouldn’t leave his field of vision. Removing a large crystal pitcher, she sets two glasses before him and does not miss the panicked, flighty way his eyes follow the motion of her hands as she fills them both to the brim.

She takes one sip of hers before setting it down and clasping her hands in front of her. The boy swallows all of his in three rapid gulps without breaking eye contact. His gloved hands tremble violently; he makes no attempt to conceal the movement.

Jocasta squints at him in the dim light. His hair, falling into his eyes, is hopelessly tangled. His cheeks and eyes are deep-set and hollowed, his skin dull and pale. His stained shirt and trousers, obviously made for a much younger child, are still several sizes too big, and hang off of his skinny frame like dishrags. The most shocking aspect of his appearance, however, are his eerily skeletal wings. They lack the healthy sheen and defined musculature they ought to have from years of flight - almost as if they’d never been used at all.

The longer she stares without speaking, the darker the room appears around him. Shadows dance across his face that could not be cast from the fireplace yards away in the parlor. _So Devlon told me true. He_ is _a shadowsinger._ A legend come to life.

She forces back a shudder.

“Do you know where you are, child?”

He shakes his head.

“Can you tell me your name?”

His voice croaks like a rusty hinge. “Az - Azriel. My name is Azriel.”

“And you’re the son of Lord Floran and one of his employees, correct? Your mother’s name is Ava?”

A single, jerky nod.

“I knew your mother well when we were small girls, but I have not only taken you into my household because of my connection to her. I take you in because it is a right and good thing to do.”

She pulls an orange from the bowl on the counter and plans her next statements carefully. “This is Lord Devlon’s war-camp, about fifty miles east of your father’s keep. Lord Devlon was the one that received you from your brothers when they brought you here. I am Lady Jocasta, wife and mate of the High Lord of Night, and mother of the Heir. You may call me Jo, or mother, or anything of a similar sort, but not ‘my lady,’ because I intend to raise you as my own. You understand?”

His thoughts are once again plain on his face - _no I don’t understand what am I supposed to do which one of those boys was the heir what does she want with me this isn’t real_ \- before he gets dragged under, Jo speaks again. “Rhetorical question, Azriel. I will prove to you that you have nothing to fear from me. I am on your side, and I will treat you well.”

_What does that mean she’s lying people aren’t supposed to be nice to me._

Azriel’s shadows seemed to solidify, spiral around his neck, across his chest, down his arms. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, as if he’d wanted to show more of a reaction but was afraid to do so. Jo wondered what the shadows did, anyway - if the gods were good, they would be convincing him she was telling the truth.

“Do you have anything you want to ask me?”

Azriel sits forward in his chair, glances at the pitcher dripping cool condensation on the wood. He licks his lips. “Can I-”

“Of course.”

With shaking hands he grips the handle and slowly refills his glass, glancing at her every few seconds to make sure she won’t rescind permission. He only downs half of his glass this time, to wet his throat before speaking.

“Why am I here?”

 _Nothing for it but to tell the truth,_ she thinks. “Your family brought you here to be trained, because Devlon has more resources than your father, and there is already an alliance between our two clans. Their plan is, once you are strong enough, to auction you and use the funds to rebuild Lord Floran’s camp to its former glory.” She gives him a moment to process this revelation.

He doesn’t look surprised. Perhaps his shadows had suggested this already, perhaps with the treatment he’d received at his brothers’ hands, it was a likely conclusion for him to come to anyway. Jocasta did not like the look of the boys that had dropped him in the camp a few hours ago; they reminded her of another boy she’d known as a child who used to sit for hours and pull the legs off of crickets.

She makes sure he’s looking her in the eye when she continues. “However, Azriel, I will rain hellfire and damnation over all Prythian before I let that happen. You will not be sold like an animal, and you will not be returning to your father’s household. What you will be doing is eating something and getting a good night’s rest, because tomorrow I am going to begin teaching you to fly.”

Before he can react, she gathers a bunch of grapes and the orange she’d peeled, along with bread, cheese, and a slab of jerky onto a platter. Taking the pitcher and his glass in her other hand, she orders, “Come, I will show you to your room.”

She leads him up the stairs and to an door at the end of a long hallway. Inside, there’s a bed, small dresser, nightstand, and desk, and on the left wall there is another door that leads to a private washroom. On the back wall there is a bay window with two white throw pillows and a hastily folded quilt.

“This can’t be mine.”

They are the first words he’s volunteered without prompting since he’s been here. “And why not?” Jocasta asks, tone light.

“There’s a window. Furniture. The door locks from the inside.”

She almost laughs. _Why would that - oh._

_Oh._

_Holy hell._

She crouches to meet him face to face. “Azriel, however you lived before - things are different now. This room is yours. I am giving you the only key to it, and you can come and go as you wish.”

He hesitates for almost a full minute, shadows whipping around his body, eyes darting back and forth with no real direction, before daring to step over the threshold. Jocasta positions herself to the side, making sure not to block him in.

“I - Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she whispers. “It’s getting late. My room is downstairs if you need anything, please do not be afraid to ask. Get some sleep, child.”

She lets him close the door himself.


End file.
